


I'll Take Your Hat, Your Hair Looks Swell

by ScratchyWilson



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-11
Updated: 2010-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:02:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScratchyWilson/pseuds/ScratchyWilson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames invites Arthur to dinner, and tries to convince him not to leave during a snowstorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Take Your Hat, Your Hair Looks Swell

**Author's Note:**

> Because "Baby, It's Cold Outside" should be their official holiday schmoop song.

Eames can't really believe Arthur accepted his invitation. Their friendship is tentative, and dinner at the house he's housesitting for a friend during the holidays feels like an incursion into the 'something more' territory.

Though he wouldn't mind going there with Arthur.

But Eames likes to stack the deck in his favor, and he can't quite decide if it's a mutual attraction on Arthur's part he detects. It doesn't help that he normally only gets to see Arthur while they're working. It was painfully clear from their very first meeting that Arthur was the consummate professional, and highly unlikely to succumb to any of his usual charms. Not that Eames seems capable of deploying his most effective wiles in the presence of Arthur. Thinking about an entire evening alone, no Cobb to run interference, no job planning to fall back on, he's worked himself into a mild panic before the doorbell finally rings.

Eames opens the door to Arthur brushing snowflakes out of his hair, and has to contain the urge to help. Instead he puts on what he hopes is a dazzling smile and says, "Arthur! Welcome to my humble abode for the week."

"When I told you to call if you were going to be stateside, I thought you'd call about work. So, why are you in Georgetown, if not on a job?" He takes Arthur's coat and scarf, hanging them up in the hall.

"Appeasing my boredom. But I'm thinking I'll head somewhere much warmer next."

Dinner proceeds surprisingly well, Eames thinks. Arthur complements his cooking, he keeps himself from blurting out ridiculous comparisons of Arthur's eyes to starlight by regaling him with stories of family Christmas dinners gone horribly awry, and Eames thinks he'd be willing to give up the chance of being something more than Arthur's friend, if being his friend would mean getting to hear him laugh and feeling this warm indistinct feeling in his chest all the time. He hopes fervently that Arthur hasn't been noticing how often Eames simply stares at him. He's managed the majority of a delightful evening alone with the beguiling creature that is Dominic Cobb's point man, without any serious foot-in-mouth scenarios. No, it's not until after dinner that everything starts to unravel.

They've cleared the plates when Arthur says, "This evening has been surprising, Mr. Eames."

"A lofty compliment in your estimation, I'm sure. Thank you, Arthur." His tone is light, and Arthur smiles again, dimples making him look far younger than he is.

"I ought to go—" Arthur starts.

"It's starting to look frighteningly cold outside," Eames counters.

"I've got a coat. And It's getting late."

"Just look at the storm. I think it better you stay. Certainly wouldn't inconvenience me," Eames says, vaguely aware he'll start finding excuses to try and keep Arthur with him for a few more moments.

"Thanks for the offer, but I have to go soon."

"Really, Arthur, it must be up to your knees out there."

"Eames, I have to be in New York tomorrow. I should go," Arthur says with a little more resolve.

"It looks like the apocalypse has come. With snow. It's the snowpocalypse. I doubt you could get a cab out there, let alone a flight to New York." Eames it quite aware of just how rambling and ridiculous he sounds, but he can't stop himself now.

"That's a ridiculous bastardization of the English language, Eames. And I'll figure something out."

"I can't in good conscience let you leave. If you caught pneumonia and died, I would wallow in guilt the rest of my life."

Arthur rightly rolls his eyes at Eames' melodrama. "Thank you for dinner, but I've got to go."

Eames heaves a sigh. "Well, if you're so determined, how about a nightcap to warm you on your journey?"

He can't decide if it's the smile he throws in at the end, or something else that makes Arthur pause while putting on his gloves. And then he's taking them off, the way the black leather slides away from Arthur's obscenely long fingers distracting Eames, so much so, that he almost misses when Arthur says, "Just a half a drink more."

"Fantastic. Why don't you pick out a different record while I pour?"

Eames leads them back into the kitchen and starts rummaging through the liquor cabinet. "If I don't get to New York sometime tomorrow, Cobb will be suspicious," Arthur says.

"Your lips look delicious."

Eames stops his drink fixing, mortified. He couldn't have said that out loud. He had gone nearly two hours in Arthur's presence without saying something completely idiotic, it was only reasonably that his self-preservation filter was slipping. And true, it had been a particularly resurgent thought, ever since Arthur had shown up on his temporary doorstep, cheeks flushed with the cold. Eames dares to look up, expecting the most dangerous of Arthur's glares— or worse still, to be laughed at— but Arthur has already wandered back into the living room, and he lets out a shaky breath in relief.

Steeling himself, Eames joins Arthur in the living room and hands him his drink. He puts his own down and tries to figure out how where the on switch for the gas fireplace is.

He's surprised when Arthur asks in a choked voice, "What's in this?"

"It's more scotch neat than a proper nightcap." He turns back to the fireplace. For supposedly being easier and simpler than a traditional fireplace, he can't help but think at least he knows how to light a match.

"Are you trying to seduce me Mr. Eames?"

Now it's Eames who's choking. "Am I—"

"The answer is no."

"To what question?"

"Insisting I stay, turning on the fireplace, trying to get me drunk." Arthur is standing and moving towards the hall. Eames is genuinely confused how they've wound back at Arthur trying to leave in the middle of possibly the worst snowstorm the District has seen, ever.

"Please don't go. Darling, you'd freeze out there."

He's not sure when he lost the ability to control his mouth, but it gets Arthur to pause as he's knotting his scarf. Maybe it was the unguarded honesty even he's surprised to hear in his own voice. Arthur isn't moving to put on his coat or gloves, so Eames considers that a small victory. He seems to be analyzing Eames' intentions, weighing his options.

Deciding that it's talking that got them to this muddled point, Eames closes the gap between them determinedly and kisses Arthur. It's sweet, a little less than chaste, and he can taste the scotch on Arthur's lips. He doesn't know what exactly he wants, but he does know he could never have Arthur casually, and he hopes the message gets across.

"God, your lips are delicious." Eames decides it must be a neurological condition that he loses all command of his speech when Arthur is near.

Arthur smiles wide, his dimples even more fascinating when Eames can brush his nose against them. Arthur steps back, putting space between them, but not moving completely out of reach.

"It does seem pretty bad outside. I can tell them I tried to leave."

"You would be destroying what's left of my pride if you left now. And this is the season of giving." Eames gives Arthur a sincere smile, and he thinks Arthur must be able to tell that he means what he says. This time it's Arthur's neck that distracts Eames, as he unwinds his wool scarf.

"I trust you'll find a way to amuse us if we get stuck here? It being the snowpocalypse and all."

Eames allows himself to smirk at the challenge as Arthur breezes past him, back into the living room. Admiring Arthur's form as he bends over and easily flicks on the fireplace, he says, "Oh certainly. You know I'm known for my imagination."


End file.
